Pizza University. Credit: Marra Forni

What It's Really Like to Attend Pizza University

12 Minute read

07 Jul 2026

Nevin Martell

Writer

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Three days of dough, discipline, and relentless repetition taught one home cook that making great pizza is as much about humility as technique.

I’m kneading a ball of pizza dough for what feels like forever, pushing, folding, and turning it on the metal table in front of me over and over again. The work is both meditative and mind-numbing, but I couldn’t be more excited to lose myself in it.

It's a mid-April day during a heatwave, and I'm in a demonstration kitchen at the Rockville, Maryland, headquarters of award-winning brick oven manufacturer Marra Forni, just outside Washington, D.C. A half-ring of the company's ovens lines the front wall of the classroom, where 22 students have gathered for an installment of Pizza University. This session focuses on the fundamentals of Neapolitan pizza, while other workshops cover Roman-style pizza and the business of opening a pizzeria.

Our chief instructor is master pizzaiolo Enzo Coccia, owner of several acclaimed pizzerias in Italy, including La Notizia 94, the first pizzeria to be included in the MICHELIN Guide. He also appeared in Stanley Tucci: Searching for Italy and wrote the foreword to the authoritative three-volume cookbook Modernist Pizza. Today, he's dressed in a gunmetal gray chef jacket, his white hair peeking out beneath a baseball cap bearing the logo of The Masters, where he had spent the previous few days making 700 pizzas a day.

Though Enzo speaks some English, he generally requires a translator, so he's assisted by a second instructor, Giulio Adriani, an accomplished pizzaiolo in his own right. Adriani is a pizzaiolo, pizza consultant, and owner of several pizzerias, including four locations of Slice & Pie in Washington, D.C. Tall and lanky, with a shaved head, white beard, and round translucent eyeglasses, he has earned trophies at the International Pizza World Championship and Pizza World Cup, as well as a place in the Guinness World Records for helping craft the world's longest pizza.

Over the next three days, Coccia and Adriani lead the class with an endearing good cop, bad cop routine that keeps us on our toes.

The class began that morning with introductions from the instructors, followed by the students. About a third of my classmates are professional chefs and restaurateurs. The rest are home cooks like me, looking to take our pizza game to the next level.

I've been making pizza since the pandemic, first using a propane-powered Gozney Roccbox in my backyard before switching to a Breville Pizzaiolo countertop oven after moving to a condo without outdoor space. Though I make pizza a few times a month, I still consider myself a novice with plenty to learn.

The Foundation of Great Pizza

Enzo begins with a quick history lesson. “You have to understand what it was in the beginning, so you can understand how to evolve it and make it your own,” he says.

What we know as pizza developed in Naples sometime in the late 18th or early 19th century before arriving in America in the late 19th century. Today, it's big business. Pizzerias account for 17% of all restaurants in the United States. Every year, more than 4 billion fresh and frozen pizzas are sold, and the average American eats roughly 23 pounds of pizza annually.

With the history out of the way, we get a primer on dough. Though it's made with just flour, water, yeast, and salt, plenty of other variables come into play, including the water's pH and temperature, the temperature and humidity of the room, the protein content of the flour, and the amount of yeast you use. Dough proves an old truism: the simpler something appears, the harder it is to do consistently well.

Finally, we get our hands dirty kneading dough. I've been at it for nearly 20 minutes when Giulio comes around to inspect everyone's work. He slices open my dough ball and peers inside, where tiny bubbles have formed. He nods and simply says, "Good."

I’ll take it.

The afterglow is brief. Enzo stops by my workbench, pinching my dough like an aggressive aunt grabbing a baby's cheek. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. My optimism and pride evaporate just as quickly.

Fortunately, lunch arrives in the form of saltimbocca, meaning "jump in the mouth." Like a cross between a calzone and a hot grinder, these Italian sandwiches are made by baking a rectangle of pizza dough, slicing it open, adding cheese, sauce, and toppings, then returning it to the oven open-faced. One version, packed with pepperoni and drizzled with Mike's Hot Honey, is practically addictive.

That afternoon, we hear a brief welcome from Marra Forni President and CEO Francesco Marra before learning about large-scale dough production in an industrial mixer. By the time I leave, I'm tired, sweaty, and covered in a fine dusting of flour that gives me an almost ghostly appearance, but I'm also exhilarated by how much I've learned.

Behind the Oven Door

Our second day begins at the Marra Forni production facility in Elkridge, Maryland, just south of Baltimore. Vice President of Culinary Robert Bratton kicks off the morning by discussing some of the company's high-profile clients—including Whole Foods, professional sports teams, and the U.S. military—and explaining how the design of its brick ovens was inspired by those used in Pompeii nearly 2,000 years ago.

Francesco Marra takes over, leading us on a factory tour where 375 ovens are currently in production. More than 500 configurations are available, each featuring custom exterior tilework that often incorporates a name, logo, or pattern. Each oven is assembled by hand over six to eight weeks and costs between $10,000 and $90,000. "In the United States, you can return a lot of things—but not a custom-built oven," he says, laughing but not joking.

Later that morning, we return to the classroom to learn the slap method, used to shape dough into a round crust. If you're right-handed, you use your left hand to flick the dough upward so it drapes across your upturned right hand and forearm. Then you slap it back onto the counter, rotating it a quarter turn after each slap. "Uno! Due!" ("One! Two!") Enzo repeatedly barks as he demonstrates with graceful ease, the dough moving in a hypnotic rhythm between his hands.

If no one were yelling at me and my muscles could memorize the movement, I imagine dough slapping might drop me into a pizzaiolo flow state. I focus on the back-and-forth of my hands, settling into a decent rhythm as I mentally repeat, "Uno! Due!"

I'm feeling pleased with myself when Enzo comes by. He furrows his brow and lightly slaps my right hand. Once again, I fall short of the master's standard. He demonstrates the technique again, and I go back to practicing.

Enzo makes a series of pizzas for the class: margherita, marinara, and a white pizza topped with Parmesan, olive oil, basil, and a few grinds of black pepper. The black pepper turns out to be a lovely finishing touch.

After lunch, we return to the slap method as Enzo stalks around the room, yelling, "Uno! Due! Uno! Due! Uno! Due!"

I make 10 rounds. Though I never achieve the graceful flow state that comes so effortlessly to my teachers, I can feel my technique improving.

The Final Test

On our last day, we're divided into teams of two. One person practices sliding a formed crust onto a pizza peel, the long-handled tool used to place pizzas in the oven. To move the crust, you gently pinch it at the 10 and 2 o'clock positions, then sweep it onto the peel in a smooth arc. The other student practices sliding the crust back off by pulling the peel backward at a slight angle. Done correctly, the pizza lands exactly where you intended.

Next, we work with smaller, rounded peels used to turn pizzas in the oven. You slide one beneath the pizza, tilt it slightly, and pull back. I can't get the hang of it. The pizza either slips off, flops over, or refuses to rotate. By the time Enzo swings by my workstation, I'm feeling frustrated.

“No, no, no," Enzo says before demonstrating the technique again. Message received. I try again.

We get a tutorial on sauce before returning to the slap method as the workshop winds down. One student at a time steps to the front to make a final pizza. I top mine with sauce, Parmesan, mozzarella, fresh basil, and a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil. It sits on the counter a minute too long and sticks slightly, so Giulio helps me free it. It's not a perfect circle, but it slides into the oven just fine. Better still, it emerges beautifully leopard-spotted around the edges. I pose for a photo with it, standing proudly between Enzo and Giulio. It feels like being flanked by rock stars.

I take a bite of my pizza. It's delicious: thin but not floppy at the center, utterly foldable, with just the right amount of char and a perfect balance of crust and toppings.

As I drive home that evening, my Pizza University diploma resting on the passenger seat beside me, I'm feeling good. I learned new skills and feel like I've leveled up as a pizzaiolo.

A few weeks later, I make pizza at home for the first time since the class. Standing at my kitchen counter, I do my best to replicate the slap technique. As the dough moves back and forth between my hands, I can almost hear Enzo beside me: "Uno! Due! Uno! Due! Uno! Due!"

My form is still a work in progress, but I manage to produce respectable pies. Enzo spent three days teaching me how to make better pizza. It's my son, though, who reminds me why I wanted to learn in the first place. He shows his appreciation with a different slap technique: a monster high five.